


Styx

by prieta



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hannibal is creepy as ever, Heavy overt symbolism, M/M, Someone stop me, Will's life can never not suck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:03:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prieta/pseuds/prieta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Swelling upwards like the river Styx, our memories overtake us. //<br/>Hannibal is creepy as usual and Will's life sucks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Styx

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's rereading House of Leaves and is letting it seep into her already shoddy writing style.  
> Written very, very quickly, will revise later probably.  
> 

 

 

. .. .. o.0.o .. .. .

 

"I will take care of you from now on," Hannibal promises. And so he does. Will is too weak to protest, and then when he regains his strength too resigned, so Hannibal cares for him. He feeds him from his own plate, walks him outside grip a firm anchor, tapes and sutures his wounds with a lover's care. And when those close up, Will allows Hannibal to open up new ones.

They are sitting in Hannibal's pristine kitchen, Will's head cradled in one hand as the other one traces the lines of his cheek with infinite gentleness, just deep enough to draw blood. It might hurt later, but for now it doesn't, or he's too numb to feel it. The cool damp slick of steel down his cheeks the same as the feel of raindrops sliding down his face, unavoidable no matter how he'd hidden his face or how tightly he'd drawn his hoodie over his eyes, the smell of metal an echo of the cold tang of river water.

Will closes his eyes. He remembers; the year following the death of his mother, he and his siblings had mostly been left to their own devices- his father far too grief-stricken to do any sort of care-taking, the adults gathered in clusters in the kitchen and dining room unaware of when they slipped out.

He'd wandered outside during a beautiful spring day, found himself stranded in the wake of an oncoming storm. Ducked under the bridge for lack of anywhere else to go, sat there huddled under the beams for what seemed like hours. The smell of peat and precipitation, river-moss, the squelch of silt seeping in between the gap of his trainers. Curled up his forehead to his knees to shield his face from the rain- it was the first time he recognized it, swelling upwards within him like the gorged river banks the feeling of aloneness. Singularity. The knowledge that no one would come for him, that he'd lost something precious and he wouldn't be able to get it back.  _Mo-_

The scalpel finishes its meandering path along Will's jawline, and Hannibal sets it aside with a gentle clink. The chill touch of metal replaced with warm fingers that ghost along brows, rubbing gentle circles- eddies and flows- slicked with the damp of his blood. The tenderness of those hands makes Will's chest ache, a familiar tightness.

"What are you thinking about," Hannibal murmurs, ducks down to place a kiss by the corner of his lips. He unwinds the bandages, they make a quiet tearing sound as the plastic rips. His coppery eyes gleam like the dark depths of the river undisturbed by the staccato beat of rain, whorling constellations of mud and water, and Will an island stranded in the sea. Twelve years old, his clothes plastered to his neck uncomfortably, he'd bitten his cheeks bloody in a futile effort not to cry, sat there clutching the beam like an anchor; the awful, quiet awe, the aching tightness in his chest.

Once, just once, Will shielded his eyes and ducked his head out to get his bearing, was so startled his grief fled momentarily. Face filthy, hands scraped, he crawled outside raised his gaze saw the river stretching outwards in either direction, twisting like snake coils, the breadth and depth of it unfathomable, endless. A thing unto itself.

"Nothing," he replies.

 

 

. .. o .. .


End file.
